The Elephant on the Roof
by frozen-delight
Summary: For a man who's scared of heights, Lestrade has taken to spending an awful lot of time up on rooftops. Sherlock/Lestrade, Angst with a happy ending, warning for mild mentions of suicidal ideation.


A/N: Many, many thanks to my fabulous beta **canonisrelative** for all her brilliant advice and patient hand-holding. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.

This story incorporates the cut rooftop scene from _A Study in Pink_. Also, please note that everything after Sherlock's fall is canon-divergent.

Written for **what_alchemy** for the Holmestice 2014 Summer Fanworks Exchange.

Please enjoy!

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For a man who's scared of heights, Lestrade has taken to spending an awful lot of time up on rooftops.

But that's just one of the many crazy turns his life has taken ever since he met one brilliantly insane and even more insanely attractive Sherlock Holmes, so it hardly bears mentioning.

The first time happens roughly two years after Lestrade first set eyes on Sherlock and a good six months since the boy's last relapse.

It's been long enough for Lestrade to pick up on the fact that Sherlock hates nothing so much as being doubted when he declares he's clean, and it's almost been long enough for Lestrade to actually believe his protestations. He's not quite there yet, but he's learnt to shut up and try to trust him ever since that memorable time where Sherlock collapsed at his crime scene and Lestrade immediately accused him of using again – only to find out that Sherlock had forgotten to eat for the last four days because he'd been so engrossed in the case. Lestrade certainly won't forget the way Sherlock flinched away from him and sullenly ignored him for a whole week before he finally accepted Lestrade's honest apologies, and he's determined not to let that happen again.

Alas, there are so many things Lestrade's determined not to let happen again, and yet they do. Such as that serial killer who's murdering six-year old boys at the Brixton Recreation Centre, one after another, and there seems to be nothing Lestrade and his colleagues can do to stop him. Goddammit, how Lestrade hates it when it's kids.

He's had trouble sleeping ever since his wife moved out and now with the murders bothering him all hope of falling asleep tonight has gone right out of the window. After brooding over the case files till almost one in the morning, Lestrade finally makes up his mind to go and consult Sherlock, knowing that there's a high chance his consulting detective isn't sleeping either.

Lestrade proves to be right about that – Sherlock isn't sleeping. Apart from that, though, he's wholly unprepared for the sight that greets him as he arrives outside of Sherlock's latest flat.

Mycroft Holmes is standing on the pavement opposite, craning his neck up at the rooftop of the three-storey building. One hand is pressing his mobile phone to his ear, while the other is waving his umbrella through the cool night air in what looks like ancient, angry sigils. His face, usually so bland, is alight with emotion, worry and exasperation the most prominent; his bespoke coat and trousers sport the odd crease or two, and there are specks of mud on his fine black shoes. This must be the least dignified Lestrade has ever seen him.

Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes is standing up on the rooftop with the air of a drunk, fatally unbalanced teenager who's gone into hysterics over his latest break-up. He's also got a phone at his ear, though he only uses it to listen to what his brother is telling him, whereas he prefers to shout his answers straight down at the street.

As can be imagined, the racket has already woken up half the neighbourhood. Several people are leaning out of the windows, some following the proceedings with mild, sleepy curiosity, others shouting 'Shut up! Be quiet! Some of us want to sleep!' and threatening to call the police.

'Sherlock Holmes, if you don't come down right this second I will make you!' Mycroft Holmes barks into his phone at the moment Lestrade appears on the scene.

'If you want me to be off the roof right this second, the only option is to jump!' Sherlock yells back at him.

'What the hell is going on here?' Lestrade inquires.

'My brother finds himself in a delicate emotional state and is too stubborn to talk about it.'

'And that's the reason you're now waking up the whole street?' Lestrade asks, ducking away from the umbrella point which swings past his face, only narrowly avoiding his eyes. 'It's past midnight, man, for God's sake!'

Mycroft doesn't grace this with a reply and goes back to shouting into his phone, a mixture of threats to have Sherlock's flat searched and of pleas for him to get down from the roof, all of which Sherlock counters with childish taunts about his brother's weight and even more juvenile professions of eternal enmity.

'Quiet!' someone shouts above them.

'I'm calling the police!' comes from another direction.

'He's going to kill himself!' a third voice shrieks. 'Someone's got to stop him!'

'Bloody Holmeses!' Lestrade swears under his breath, assessing the situation. He's known both Holmes brothers long enough to understand that Sherlock will never voluntarily climb down from that roof as long as his brother is trying to make him, and that Mycroft Holmes won't go home before he's had the heart-to-heart that his younger brother has been so eager to avoid. In the worst and not entirely improbable case, Sherlock will step off the ledge, if only to spite his brother.

Except that's not going happen, because Lestrade refuses to allow Sherlock to throw himself off a roof on his watch.

'It's okay,' he says to no one in particular as he crosses the street. Tilting his head back, he shouts, 'Sherlock, don't move!' Then he repeats in the direction of the adjoining houses, 'I'm the police. It's okay, I've got this.'

As soon as he places his hand on the railing of the fire ladder on the side of the house wherein Sherlock lives, however, Lestrade realises that, dammit, it might not be all that easy. Because handling the situation means climbing up to the rooftop and Lestrade's … well… he's not ashamed to admit that he's more than a little... _bothered_ by heights. Swallowing hard, he grips the railing tight and climbs up the first few steps.

An eerie feeling settles at the bottom of his stomach and a faint rushing fills his ears, blocking out all noise from the street. Lestrade halts, takes a deep breath, tries hard to brace himself for the task ahead. He remembers that movie he watched with his wife, where Richard Gere was also afraid of heights in everything but share prices, and yet he still managed to climb up several flights of a fire ladder, all out of love for Julia Roberts. Okay, thinking about his wife, no, _ex-wife_, isn't the most encouraging thing at the present moment. He takes another deep breath and tries to focus on Richard Gere solely.

Lestrade has no illusions that he could in any way compare to Richard Gere. He also realises that Sherlock is probably even less of a princess in need of saving by a knight in a shining armour than Julia Roberts. Still, the mental image is enough to keep him going until he finally reaches the rooftop, sweating and shivering.

'Lestrade,' Sherlock greets him in surprise, his face impossibly young in the shadows. 'Why are you here?'

'I came to see you.'

'Why are you up here, I mean. You could have waited down there until my brother had me dragged down by a special forces unit from the MI5.'

Lestrade grins. 'Yeah, well, I've got more style than that.'

'You do,' Sherlock agrees amicably enough, only to cut the first ever compliment he's paid Lestrade short with the following observation, 'You're scared of heights, though, and your physical fitness is hardly at its prime. You're in need of a good shower and continuous work-outs, Detective Inspector.'

Before Lestrade has a chance to punch him, Sherlock hurls his phone at the ground below in a sweeping motion, accompanying it with a colourful shout of 'Go to hell, Mycroft!' Then he grabs Lestrade's arm and drags him to the back of the roof.

Lestrade suddenly becomes aware of the distant booming of a propeller which is steadily growing nearer.

'I can't believe he sent a helicopter!' Sherlock complains dramatically, takes a run and jumps to the roof of the building behind, then rushes down the fire ladder there to disappear over a wall and into the shades of trees in the adjacent park.

Now Sherlock might be an insolent brat, but he just stood on the edge of a rooftop and showed all the symptoms of someone who shouldn't be left alone, so Lestrade follows him. Unlike Sherlock, he doesn't possess the agile, graceful and reckless movements of a cat, but his fitness level is nowhere near as atrocious as the snot-nosed boy made it out to be, thank you very much, and he's able to keep up just fine.

They huddle against the trunk of an old, knobby oak tree. The helicopter soars over their heads and away into the night.

'You smashed your phone,' Lestrade says once he's caught his breath enough to speak.

'That way Mycroft can't trace our steps,' Sherlock explains. Then he rolls his eyes at Lestrade's expression. 'Oh really, Lestrade, it's nothing. Mycroft will buy me a new one.'

Lestrade bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from pointing out that Sherlock is a horribly spoilt child and it's little wonder Mycroft's always on his heels, treating him like an over-excited toddler. 'He's worried about you,' he says instead.

Sherlock's lip curls in distaste. 'He wants to control me.'

'He seems to have had reasonable cause to worry about you tonight,' Lestrade rephrases.

Sherlock shrugs. 'I wasn't going to kill myself, not tonight. And I'm clean. There was no reason for him to show up with his smug, fat face and a straightjacket for good measure.'

'Sherlock, can I ask –'

'I don't want to talk about it,' Sherlock cuts him off. More quietly, he adds, 'I just wanted to have a bit of quiet and peace, just once. Is that too much to ask?'

'No, it's not,' Lestrade agrees. There's a lot more he wants to say. He wants to tell the boy – incredible, really, how young Sherlock still is; he's not even thirty yet and that's no age at all – of all the things he has a right to ask from life, not just pretty phones and smart clothes. But Lestrade's never been the most eloquent man on the planet, so he hopes that his presence here beside Sherlock is already enough of a statement in itself.

For a minute or maybe several, they sit leaning against the tree trunk in companionable silence. Then, suddenly, Sherlock starts laughing uncontrollably, erupting into a series of dark, rumbling chuckles that rip through his torso and pierce through the peaceful night air.

'What's so funny?' Lestrade asks, nonplussed.

'Just you,' Sherlock chuckles. 'You should have seen yourself when you crawled onto the rooftop. You had about the colour of the five-week-old mould that I've been growing at the back of my fridge.'

Lestrade smacks him playfully against the head, but laughs along. 'Remind me to never ever eat or drink anything you offer me,' he jokes.

'Like I'd ever be polite enough to offer you anything,' Sherlock returns, eyes crinkling with amusement. 'Don't you worry, Lestrade.'

Then he launches into an amazingly simple explanation of the Brixton Recreation Centre murders, starting with the brand-new pair of Disney's Aladdin swimming shoes the second victim was wearing and ending with his cunning plan to catch the bastard responsible.

Later, after a full eight hours of dreamless, invigorating sleep, undisturbed by visions of dead little boys and memories of nasty arguments with his wi… _ex-wife_, Lestrade realises that this is the first time he's ever seen Sherlock laugh outright.

Unfortunately, Sherlock has the tendency to lounge around on rooftops with the ethereal air of a lost poet boy wonder, and since Lestrade has the tendency to gather wherever his consulting detective happens to be, he comes to spend far more time on rooftops than he would ever have liked to.

The queasy feeling remains, but as long as he doesn't have to climb any fire ladders or glance over the ledge, Lestrade's doing okay.

Sometimes his stomach also lurches and his knees start to wobble when he's got both feet firmly on the ground and is doing nothing more adventurous than standing next to the form of Sherlock Holmes, crouched over a corpse. Sherlock's vertiginous presence never ceases to affect Lestrade and he doesn't get used it any more than to heights. Thankfully, Sherlock never seems to pick up on the way his intense gaze can make Lestrade go weak in the knees the way he immediately deduced his acrophobia.

Lestrade's also okay with his weak knees and Sherlock's obliviousness. Mostly.

On a bad night, he'll wish for more and curse the almost illicit thrill Sherlock exercises over him. Usually, though, he's just glad that the boy – for Christ's sake, he's passed the thirty year mark, Lestrade should really stop thinking of him as a boy – that the _young man_ allows him to stick around, if only because he needs him to provide cases and occasionally company.

Thus Lestrade takes all he can get of the sneering, the insults, the mood swings, the general craziness and the chases across rooftops, and doesn't regret the absurd turn his life has taken.

So much so that he rolls his eyes only compulsorily and doesn't hesitate for a second when he receives a text that reads _You know where to find me_.

He's got a bit carried away and made a snarky comment to a journalist from the Daily Mail, enough to ensure that he'll never be promoted again, if Donovan's frustrated sigh next to him is anything to go by. Lestrade has little interest in saving his career, but all the more in saving innocent citizens from those serial suicide killings or however one's supposed to call them, so he leaves the press conference and makes his way up to the roof of New Scotland Yard.

His stomach rumbles and his heart flutters faintly as he steps out on the rooftop. He never really knows what to expect from those encounters. Not that he's ever seen Sherlock truly happy and at ease, but when Sherlock starts frequenting rooftops, it's always a sign that he's more on edge than usual and on the point of coming apart at the seams. Lestrade's no psychologist, so he can't tell what's really going on inside Sherlock. He can differentiate between a bad day and a very bad day, but that's about it. Sherlock isn't particularly forthcoming either. So Lestrade has no clue how bad it really is and he always fears that one day his presence won't be enough to keep Sherlock up on the roof.

Because he's an unforgivable drama queen (or maybe because he's a cruel sadist who likes nothing better than to give Lestrade a heart attack), Sherlock always takes extra care during these rooftop sojourns to maintain an eloquent distance from the edge – the closer he stands, the greater the danger and the darker his mood. This time, he's placed himself perilously close to the brink, the point of his shoe exactly where the roof ends. Shit.

Lestrade gulps and fumbles for his cigarettes before he realises that he's no longer carrying any around in his pocket. After all, he's been trying to quit the nasty habit. Helped along by nicotine patches, he's been doing all right so far.

'What do pipes do for you cigarettes don't?' he asks out of the blue in an innocent attempt to get the conversation going and is pleased that his voice sounds almost normal. The thought that Sherlock wouldn't have texted him if he simply wanted to throw himself off a building calms Lestrade and he clings to it with all his might.

'Cancer of the jaw,' Sherlock replies.

Lestrade laughs. Good. As long as Sherlock's still able to come up with retorts like that, quick, sarcastic, concise, Lestrade isn't too worried that today will be the day his association with Sherlock Holmes comes to an end. 'Okay. What am I getting wrong this time?'

'No notes. No prior sign. Each of them in a strange location that means nothing to them, where they've never gone before… That's not how I'd kill myself.'

Lestrade glances uneasily at the edge of the roof where Sherlock is standing. They both know exactly how Sherlock would do it. Mycroft doesn't; Lestrade suspects he still believes that drugs pose the greatest threat to his brother's life. Normally, they never talk about it, making the reason why Sherlock seeks out rooftops the big elephant in the room, or, as Lestrade sometimes calls it in his own head, _the elephant on the roof_. But Sherlock's just given him the perfect opening and Lestrade's not going to let it go. '…So. How are you doing these days?'

Sherlock spins around so fast it makes Lestrade feel nauseous. His eyes are two glinting slits that might easily light the cigarette Lestrade finds himself desiring more and more by the minute. With their abysmal intensity, they slice through Lestrade's skin and carve sinister tidings into his entrails in a language he doesn't understand. 'The case, Lestrade. Let's talk about the case.'

'Sherlock…'

'Lestrade, am I in on the case?' Sherlock asks him, spitting out each consonant with perfect precision.

'Not yet,' Lestrade answers truthfully. 'My team won't let you, not after how you behaved last time.'

'But you asked… just now,' Sherlock insists, stepping right into Lestrade's personal space. From up this close, Lestrade isn't quite sure if it would be more adequate to describe his demeanour as threatening or as fragile. Probably a cross of the two. With Sherlock it's always a cross. He simply doesn't do non-complicated. Which is why he's making this as difficult as possible for Lestrade. 'You _consulted_ me. You asked for my professional opinion.'

'Be reasonable, Sherlock, please. I can't bring you in on the crime scene, not before I've convinced the team to give you another chance. And your stunt down there at the press conference certainly isn't going to be helpful in persuading them, Sherlock, let me tell you that.'

'But you asked me!' Sherlock hisses again, stamping his foot like the spoilt little boy he is.

'I asked you as a friend,' Lestrade tries to pacify him, but it's in vain. His face contorting with fury and something else – disappointment? desperation? hurt? – Sherlock tells him 'We aren't _friends_, Lestrade.' and storms off across the roof and disappears.

Lestrade quickly goes back inside. But even when he's arrived at his office on the first floor, the sick, heavy weight in his gut remains. It's not the fear of heights, it's guilt. And the vague dread that he's lost something important, once and for all.

Accordingly, Lestrade moves heaven and earth to involve Sherlock in the case he so obviously needs to distract him. Donovan and Anderson grumble, but Lestrade doesn't care. With spectacular speed, Sherlock solves the case and doesn't even commit suicide in the process. In the exhilaration of a national and a private catastrophe successfully averted, Lestrade misses the central clue that, from now on, things will never be the same again: For the first time, Sherlock had brought an assistant along to the crime scene.

The way John Watson boxes – or should he say shoots? – his way into Sherlock's flat, life, work and heart leaves Lestrade speechless. Not even to mention bereft.

There's no more hanging out on rooftops with Sherlock. Not that Sherlock's suddenly perfectly fine, but his mood swings seem to have balanced out a little, and more often than not, he appears to be downright happy. When he is experiencing a difficult time, though, John's always there to pull him back out of the gloom, so successfully that even Mycroft gradually cedes the dubious right of the danger nights to him. Meanwhile Lestrade has to console himself with being the butt of dazzling deductions and cruelly inventive insults.

It's not fair, dammit.

Lestrade has no right to blame Sherlock for striking up a much more intimate friendship with the blonde ex-army doctor. But what he resents him for and rightfully so is that in a way Sherlock's always taken Lestrade for granted – whereas now he's overflowing with wonder that John's putting up with him.

Watching Sherlock look at John Watson as though he's personally hung the moon in the sky – and who knows, what with Sherlock's insufficient knowledge of the solar system, if maybe he doesn't actually believe that – makes Lestrade feel sick. Even more so than climbing up fire ladders.

It's not like he wants a fucking prize or anything. Not really. (Just occasionally, when he's drunk and allows himself to dream a little.) But a touch of respect, a touch of recognition… is that really too much to ask?

Since it rather seems that way, Lestrade tries looking for respect and recognition elsewhere.

While Sherlock is busy playing happy family with John and Mrs Hudson at Baker Street and advances to the tabloid press's new favourite shooting star, Lestrade makes another attempt at marriage. It doesn't go any better than the first, but at least this time Lestrade is ready to admit it to himself soon enough to remain friends with wife – _ex-wife_ number two. In retrospect, Lestrade realises it was unforgivably stupid to assume that there could ever be any marital bliss for a man who spends all his days and half his nights in his office or in the company of corpses, and for whom a handful of barmy rooftop sessions with a rude, suicidal child prodigy are among his fondest memories.

Unfortunately, his marriage isn't the only thing Lestrade messes up badly. The next time Sherlock's standing on a rooftop, Lestrade isn't anywhere near and it's mainly _his_ actions which have sent Sherlock up there in the first place. Good, loyal John Watson is standing down on the ground, shouting, frantically, but it's not enough, and the next moment Sherlock lies down there on the pavement too, a pale spectre cloaked in a dark coat and even darker blood.

After the first wave of shock, disbelief, numbness and guilt, Lestrade climbs up on St Bart's roof himself. Nothing suggests the tragedy that took place on the roof a couple of weeks earlier. It's quiet and lonely up there, right in the centre of London, quiet and lonely like Lestrade's life.

There's an unpleasant, giddy sensation in the pit of his stomach, because even though he's seated himself nowhere near the ledge, Lestrade can't block out the awareness that he's sitting 70 feet above the ground and there's a gaping street below, between them the staggering distance of then and now. But he welcomes the feeling. For one thing, he thinks he deserves it. For the other – he's missed this.

The creaking of a door behind him breaks the silence. Out of the corner of his eye Lestrade sees Molly approach. Ever since Sherlock's death, she hasn't really been herself. Nervous, mousy, miserable, speaking even less than she previously did, ready to jump up and break into tears any time someone startles her.

Well, who can blame her? John and Mrs Hudson haven't been doing much better. And as for Lestrade, he certainly wouldn't be sitting on a bloody rooftop if he were doing okay.

'I saw you go up,' Molly says apologetically, running her hands up and down her white coat. She hesitates a moment before she seats herself beside Lestrade. Clearly, she's in a bad state, but at least she's not crying so far. 'So I just wanted to check… sorry.'

'No, no, it's all right,' Lestrade hastens to assure her because he's suddenly glad that he's not all alone up here.

'No, it's not,' Molly says and winces. 'I mean, it is, I see that now, but I didn't think it was… Sorry, I was just scared for you, that's all. I mean, I… I know what he meant to you, so…'

Lestrade's heart starts to hammer in his chest, doubling the sick, fluttery feeling inside. 'You've lost a friend too, Molly.'

Molly shakes her head. 'That's not what I meant,' she says with a shy straightforwardness that clearly states she's perfectly aware he knows that too. 'But, it's okay, it's okay if you don't want to talk about that. Just… if you did, you know… I'm here.'

Lestrade swallows. 'How did you know?'

'Well, I'm a bit of an expert in that area, aren't I?' she smiles, her eyes shining with tears.

Lestrade looks at her, amazed how he's managed to miss that Molly Hooper is almost as good an observer as Sherlock Holmes. Of course, overlooking someone like Molly, too nice and too timid to spout her observations whenever it pleases her, would always have been an easy feat. But since she's always been standing in the shadow of Sherlock Holmes, who for Lestrade shines… damn, _shone_ brighter than the fucking sun, moon and stars put together, overlooking her has been like a law of nature, cast in stone for all eternity.

Except that a height of 70 feet has put a sudden end to that eternity.

Looking at her now, Lestrade can't not see. The sense that there's still someone to pick up on things no one else notices, even if those things happen to be an extremely embarrassing subject, is curiously comforting. 'Do you think he knew?'

'God no,' she exclaims with a high-pitched laugh. 'He didn't even get it with me. He smiled at me and complimented me and knew how to manipulate me from A to Z, but he was clueless as to why all that worked so well on me right up to that disastrous Christmas party. Gosh! His face!' she giggles. 'It was the worst night of my life, but in hindsight it does have a certain comic potential… So, Greg,' Molly begins again, leaning her head against his shoulder, 'take a look and make a deduction: If he didn't even make the connection with me, would he have in your case? I mean, you weren't quite so obvious, right.'

'Yeah, you were really obvious,' Lestrade says and they both laugh at that until the tears stream down their faces and they can no longer tell if they're laughing or crying.

Lestrade is still fighting having to think and speak of his consulting detective, or rather his _ex-consulting detective_, as belonging to the past, when Sherlock miraculously returns from the dead and once again juggles around the tenses in Lestrade's head. But even though Lestrade never really got used to the thought that Sherlock was gone, he now struggles with reminding himself that Sherlock _was_ dead, at least in a way, but that he most certainly _isn't_ dead any longer.

He's not the only one who has difficulties adjusting. What makes it harder for him, for John, for Mrs Hudson or even Molly to re-integrate the thought and the reality of Sherlock being alive into their lives is that Sherlock himself has trouble recognising it, as though he'd really spent two years in a grave six feet below the ground.

Once his name's been cleared, Sherlock's back to solving crimes, both for Lestrade and for private clients, and John tags along to help him. Just like in the old days. All of them pretend it's the old days. And yet nothing's the same.

A phone call from John shatters any illusions Lestrade might have had that after a while things would go back to normal.

'Greg?' John says as soon as Lestrade picks up his phone. Lestrade immediately knows this isn't to check if Anthony McLewis, whom Lestrade arrested an hour ago, has confessed everything like Sherlock said he would.

'What's up?'

'It's Sherlock.'

Lestrade swallows. 'What is it?'

'I… I was so angry about how carelessly he went after McLewis, no backup, nothing, almost got himself shot, the bloody bastard,' John swears and Lestrade involuntarily thinks back to John's balled fists and his unnaturally calm face, vibrating with controlled fury. Yeah, anyone who knew John Watson at all would have realised that _angry_ was the understatement of the year. 'When we were back at the flat, I shouted, and he shouted, and I said some things… Christ! Such shit… and now he's just gone and I can't find him anywhere.'

Lestrade's heart stutters, then abruptly picks up speed, and he's reeling, suddenly, sick with fright. While he has no trouble imagining how the Sherlock he used to know would have reacted to the situation, he has no idea what the Sherlock who threw himself off a roof might do. 'Calm down, John,' he says, but it's directed just as much at himself. For wherever he is, Sherlock sure as hell isn't anywhere near calm this very minute. They can't afford to lose their heads, too.

'I'm trying, Greg, but I'm feeling more than a bit frantic, man. He fucked up, now I fucked up, the whole bloody world's been fucked up ever since…'

'It's okay, John,' Lestrade replies more confidently than he feels. 'We'll find him. Just keep looking. I'll go looking for him too.'

There's a moment of silence on the other end, only broken by forcefully slow breathing, and then John, sounding slightly more put together, says 'Thanks, Greg,' and 'I'll be in touch.'

It's Lestrade who finds Sherlock. A forlorn figure in a dark coat, he's standing on the edge of Bart's rooftop, a detail Lestrade certainly won't mention to John. He makes a mental note to also give Sherlock the hint not to inform his flatmate exactly where he's been. Because that would only cause the next furious argument to flare up, before the two of them even have the chance to settle this one.

Cautiously, Lestrade approaches the detective. He doesn't say anything, just positions himself close by, lights a cigarette and watches.

'I thought you'd quit?' the baritone voice from the ledge acknowledges his presence.

'Yeah, well… that wasn't really working for me,' Lestrade replies gruffly. He doesn't receive an answer to that. Sherlock remains standing where he is, staring out at the city that lies below and beyond. God knows what he's looking for. God knows if he himself knows.

When he's finished his cigarette, Lestrade drops the stub to the ground and crushes it with his heel. After a while, since Sherlock's back remains a silent, immobile black line against the bright blue sky, Lestrade starts a second one.

He's on his third cigarette when Sherlock finally steps back down from the ledge and turns round to face him. Once again, Lestrade is struck by how much those two years away have changed Sherlock. His face is more lined, more worn, the flashy, perky wunderkind charm that had first endeared him to Lestrade replaced by the more sombre glow of experience, and yet Lestrade is rather inclined to find him even more beautiful than previously. Maybe it's the touch of world-weary monkhood which makes him seem all the more like an otherworldly creature. At least that's what makes it easier for Lestrade to resign himself to what he'll never have, miraculous returns from the dead, second chances and all that crap notwithstanding.

'I don't know,' Sherlock says quietly, his eyes distant and lighter than the sky above them. 'It's much more difficult than I would have thought.'

'Coming back?' Lestrade asks.

Sherlock nods, his mouth twitching into what is clearly supposed to be an ironic smirk but ends up as a pathetic, pained little grimace. 'I thought being away was the hard part. For two years the furthest I ever thought ahead was: And then I'll be home again. I never thought beyond that.'

'Mmhmm,' Lestrade murmurs sympathetically, because there's no way he'll ever be able to understand what it was like for Sherlock during those two years; the same way Sherlock finds it so impossible to comprehend what his friends went through while he was gone.

Sherlock doesn't really seem to hear him. Looking lost and miserable, he stares ahead, until suddenly his whole face contracts in scorn which is directed against none other than himself. 'Stupid,' he hisses. 'Stupid.'

'No,' Lestrade tries, but Sherlock interrupts him, '_Yes_! Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_! I should have realised that things would change, that not everything would be as I'd left it. Considering how far superior my brain is to yours, it's inexcusable I made such a beginner's mistake…'

'But you _were_ a beginner,' Lestrade insists. 'You've never been in such a situation before. No one we know has. How could you have known?'

'I should have known better! For God's sakes, I should _know_ better. Every morning, when I'm sitting in the living room and John walks in, I feel as though I've woken up in the wrong flat, with a different flatmate entirely, simply because he _smells_ so wrong. He's changed the brand of shampoo he always, _always_ used to buy and I just can't get used to it. And then I sit there,' Sherlock continues, because apparently once he's started talking he simply can't stop, 'and I feel on edge and everything John says works its way under my skin like carbon monoxide, undetected at first but ultimately lethal, and I'm ready to punch him when he so much as draws in a loud breath. And by far the worst thing about it, Lestrade, is that it's the same for John, and there's nothing either of us can do to stop it and so we argue from morning to night, first about the silliest things, then about… everything else, and it just gets worse and worse with every fight we have.'

'Just give it time,' Lestrade says and gently places his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Since Sherlock makes no move to shrug him off, he leaves it there.

Biting his lip in defeat, Sherlock turns his head to Lestrade. 'We've already had so much time. And all we're doing is waste it. Sometimes I … I think maybe it would have been better if I hadn't come back.'

'Don't you ever say that!' Lestrade cries out viciously. 'Don't you dare say that or I'll kill you myself!'

'That doesn't make sense,' Sherlock duly points out.

'It's an expression of sentiment. I don't _mean_ that, you great pillock.'

'Sentiment,' Sherlock sniffs. 'Well, that's never made sense to me, either.'

'Shut up!' Lestrade says harshly, because after letting his defences down for a brief moment Sherlock's now already back to pretending and Lestrade is having none of it. 'You're the one who jumped from a rooftop in order to save his friends, remember?'

'Exactly. Doesn't that prove my statement? I'm the heartless machine, to quote John, who put his friends through two years of utter misery and then had the cheek not even to be properly dead.'

'Nonsense. You really don't get it, do you? Just because we're angry doesn't mean that we aren't grateful for what you did for us, that we aren't glad you're back or that we haven't forgiven you.'

'You're angry…' Sherlock repeats, his eyes widening with astonishment. '_You_ are angry too? I thought it was just John.'

'Of course I'm angry,' Lestrade replies brusquely. 'Often I'm so angry that I want to strangle you. But then… But then,' he amends, because he can feel himself growing unforgivably maudlin and that might end in enveloping Sherlock in a crushing hug, something for which he knows the other man has always had an extremely low tolerance when it isn't Mrs Hudson, 'I used to feel like that half the time before, too. Nothing new there. So… it's okay.'

The way Sherlock smiles at him in return, a little guarded, a little puzzled, but undoubtedly more than a little bit pleased, too, makes Lestrade wonder if Sherlock wouldn't have tolerated a hug after all.

When he first met Sherlock, Lestrade would never have thought that the boy would make it to forty. Curiously enough, he does. This doesn't stop Lestrade from occasionally thinking about him as _the boy_, though he makes a point of never using the phrase when he's talking about him the way Mycroft still does. Lestrade feels pretty sure that this is a habit Mycroft Holmes will never shed, not even if his younger brother should make it to eighty.

At forty, Sherlock Holmes has settled down and is the most content Lestrade has ever known him, a far cry from the insecure youth he'd found lying in the gutter, drugged up to his eyeballs, or standing on the edge of a roof, waking the whole street with his hysterical bawling. Plunging down 70 feet and wasting two of what could have been the best years of his life has undoubtedly changed him and the relationships with those he holds dear, but gradually these changes seem to have evolved from a menace to a fresh chance. Lestrade feels incredibly proud of Sherlock. Who'd have thought that Sherlock would not only triumph over death but also show the courage and strength to come back to life and build himself a new existence?

'The boy's tougher than I thought,' Mycroft once comments in passing. It's the closest he's ever been to admitting that he was wrong, Lestrade thinks, and what makes it even better is that Mycroft Holmes looks ridiculously pleased to have been proven wrong. Quite possibly, he's feeling proud too.

Therefore, when John calls Lestrade one day and says that Sherlock's gone missing without a word, what would once have been a matter of course now comes as a surprise. Lestrade hastens to 221B where John shows him that his flatmate's wallet, keys and smartphone are lying innocently on the kitchen table, his coat's still hanging on the rack behind the door and all his shoes are there.

Since Lestrade is unwilling to contemplate the idea of Sherlock being kidnapped in nothing but his dressing gown and slippers, he decides to check one place himself before he calls out a big missing person hunt.

Sure enough, he finds him up on the rooftop. Sherlock looks startled when Lestrade berates him, 'We were worried, you twit. Couldn't you have told John you were planning to spend the day up here?'

'I wasn't,' Sherlock says, but he makes no move to get up. 'I wanted to see the April Lyrids, so I set my alarm at for 4.30 and climbed up here. What time is it now?'

'Four pm.'

'Really? Then I must have lost track of time. I could have sworn no more than a few hours have passed.'

Lestrade smiles involuntarily. He liked the old Sherlock, he likes the new Sherlock, and what he likes best is that in many ways they're still the same person. 'Did you make a wish?'

'Why would I make a wish?'

'It's custom when you see a shooting star.'

Sherlock ruffles through his hair. 'Honestly, I really don't know how you manage to keep track of all these strange facts and customs that are related to the solar system with your teensy-weensy brains.'

'Hey!' Lestrade protests half-heartedly, because, Gold help him, he finds Sherlock's eternal feud with the solar system rather endearing, especially when he takes into account how the detective's spent a lot more time in close conference with the sky than your average citizen. 'The teensy-weensy brain that's sitting on these shoulders is still good enough to process your insults and get hellishly annoyed in answer.'

'But it's beautiful up here,' Sherlock continues dreamily, not heeding Lestrade's objection in the slightest, 'I'll grant you that.'

Lestrade has never been able to appreciate the particular charm of being even a few feet closer to the sky than strictly necessary, but he tends to find it beautiful wherever Sherlock happens to be, so he doesn't disagree.

After savouring the contrast of Sherlock's profile against the light blue sky for a happy minute or two, he goes back inside to give John the all-clear. John's face immediately relaxes from worried back into the fond, disbelieving smile that only Sherlock knows how to coax out of him. Briefly, he scratches his head, then he takes Sherlock's coat and hands it to Lestrade.

'If he's been up there since 4.30, he needs to warm up a little… Go on,' he prompts, when Lestrade merely stares at him with a silent question of _Why don't you do it?_

Lestrade looks down at the smooth charcoal wool in his hands and wonders how John knows that he wanted to go back up there. Either John's picked up a trick or two from his detective flatmate over the years, or he's always been more observant than Lestrade's given him credit for.

'You might want to stay for dinner later,' John adds pleasantly, leaving no room for embarrassment. 'Mrs Hudson's making Yorkshire pudding.'

Lestrade accepts the invitation and makes his way back up to the roof. There, Sherlock shrugs on the coat and holds out his hand. Lestrade's not quite sure if he ought to feel offended or saddened by the fact that Sherlock obviously believes now that he's delivered the coat he'll leave. Does he think Lestrade's no better than a clothes rack, or does he hold himself in such low esteem that the idea Lestrade would stay with him just like that, no mission, nothing, never occurred to him? Knowing what a shockingly spoilt, shockingly insecure person Sherlock still is, both are probably true.

Instead of taking the offered hand, Lestrade sits down on the tiles. It feels neither comfortable nor particularly safe and his stomach does a feeble little flip. He quickly trains his eyes back on the enigmatic man who's the reason he's up here at all.

Said enigma lets his arm drop unceremoniously back to his side and perches down beside Lestrade, for once looking rather puzzled himself. 'I'm okay. I'm not going to hurt myself, I promise.'

'I can see that,' Lestrade assents. 'And I'm glad. I'm so glad, Sherlock, I can't even… I never liked it when you weren't.'

Sherlock hums distractedly and stares ahead, as though there's a riddle to be solved hanging in the vaporescent air surrounding them. 'Your forehead's not creased the way it always is when you're in the middle of a particularly stressful case and thinking harder than your brain's laid out for, making you look five years older at least,' he remarks, more to himself. 'There hasn't been anything interesting on the news, either, I checked. Ergo, you're not here for a case.'

'No,' Lestrade agrees, letting the less than flattering comment on his brain's capacities and aged looks slide for now.

'Then I don't understand,' Sherlock says, frowning. 'If you believe me that I'm okay and don't need looking after and if you don't have a case you need help with, then why are you still here?'

Sherlock turns his head to face Lestrade. It makes Lestrade realise with a jolt that they're sitting a lot closer than he'd thought. Sherlock's face is near enough for him to make out the different patches of yellow, green, blue and grey hue in his irises, two startlingly beautiful miniature mosaics, intricate and manifold like the man's whole personality. Possibly he's never sat quite this close to Sherlock, or if he has, then the situation didn't allow for Lestrade to contemplate his magnificent eyes in peace. In any event, it is a heady experience.

When Sherlock repeats in barely more than a whisper, 'I don't understand,' Lestrade can feel the other man's breath ghost across his skin; and that's enough to finally topple Lestrade over the edge he's been tilting towards all these years.

'That's because you're an idiot, genius,' Lestrade whispers back and kisses him quickly, chastely on the lips.

When Lestrade moves away again, Sherlock is staring at him with wide eyes, biting the lip Lestrade has just touched with his own. After a moment, long enough for Lestrade to decide that the unblinking staring is starting to get a bit scary, Sherlock says, 'Of the many stupid things you've already said in our long acquaintance, this was one of the most asinine.'

'Yeah, well luckily I've got my brainy consultant to always point me in the right direction whenever I get it wrong,' Lestrade retorts, almost succeeding at keeping his voice steady, and nervously watches the other man. He's put it out there, now he's ready to back off again if Sherlock wants him to. It's not like he ever had much hope to begin with. But as long as Sherlock isn't jumping up and skittering away like a frightened animal, Lestrade refuses to forbid himself from hoping altogether.

Under Lestrade's careful, flustered gaze, Sherlock's face slowly breaks out into a bashful smile and his eyelashes start fluttering like flushed little birds. When he speaks again, his voice is impossibly low, and yet Lestrade has no trouble making out the words. 'Just because it's stupid doesn't mean I want to correct you.'

This is all the invitation Lestrade needs to lean in and kiss him again. The headless, breathless giddiness that Lestrade has come to associate with rooftops surges through him once more, in a mighty, incandescent wave, but this time, Lestrade knows exactly that it's got nothing to do with the fact that he's sitting on a roof and everything with the fact that Sherlock is kissing him back.

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